


icarus; then, prometheus

by OnyxSphynx



Series: newmann one-shots [94]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Intricate Rituals, M/M, Not Pacific Rim: Uprising (2018) Compliant, comparisons to mythological characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-12 03:11:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20557262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphynx/pseuds/OnyxSphynx
Summary: “Here, move your leg onto mine,” Newt says, and shifts so Hermann can hike his aching leg up instead of laying on it. It does mean Hermann’s practically chest-to-chest with Newt, close enough that he can hear the other’s whistling breath—in, out, in, out—but that’s nothing alarming; they’ve been closer before.





	icarus; then, prometheus

**Author's Note:**

> anon asked: "Prompt: Hermann first saves Newt from becoming Icarus then saves him from being Prometheus"

_one_

They stand there; arm-in-arm; breathless, excited; it's the start of something new—and yet, still, it feels like coming home: the warmth of familiarity; Newt's skin burning hot through his shirt, muddied and torn a bit, smelling like an odd mix of chalk and stale circulated laboratory air and the exhilaration of the rush, before; the Drift.

"I saved you," Hermann doesn't say; because he doesn't know how to say it without wanting to cry; the idea teeters him on the edge of oblivion, the thought that Newt _could_ have died, then; twice, had Hermann not been there in the nick of time.

"I love you," he doesn't say; because at the time, standing there, he doesn't know how to voice it, yet; doesn't know if it's true, yet; if this weight blossoming beneath his ribs is love or hate or pride or something from Newton himself, spilt over between them; doesn't know if it matters.

"I can't stand," he says, instead, knee buckling, even as he leans into his cane and onto the biologist, and then, a moment later, "Newton, _you're_ going to fall over."

Newt's gaze snaps to his; floating up out of whatever plane of thought he's fallen into and back up to reality, and solidifying. "Oh," he says, "uh, right. Yeah, let's go sit down. Or lay down?" Hermann nods, and he says, decisively, "okay, then, lay down it is."

So; barely standing, they make it to the lab because it's closer and Newt says they can both fit on the futon just fine—which Hermann knows isn't true but he doesn't say it, not now—and then, stumblingly, lay down; the bright fluorescents of the lights burning through Hermann's lids, but not enough that he cares; the background scent of electric charge, chalkdust, and formaldehyde.

"Here, move your leg onto mine," Newt says, and shifts so Hermann can hike his aching leg up instead of laying on it. It does mean Hermann's practically chest-to-chest with Newt, close enough that he can hear the other's whistling breath—in, out, in, out—but that's nothing alarming; they've been closer before.

_Closer;_ the weight of Newton's arm over his shoulders, pulling him in; tight.

_Closer;_ minds melding in a sea of blue, a second shy of bereavement.

Closer; now; Newton's arm thrown across his torso; fingers splayed loosely; already drifted off to sleep, as haphazard asleep as he is awake, and somehow—this is _endearing,_ Hermann thinks, quietly in the back of his own mind; catalogues the freckles on the bridge of the other's nose, right up by his face.

He thinks, then, of the hours before; of finding Newton mere feet away from where they lay now in a tangle of limbs; bleeding; his head cracking against the pavement before Hermann gets to him; pulls him into his arms.

It reminds him, now, frighteningly, of things he'd rather it didn't—of things such as how close Newt was to Icarus; so close to the sun the wax of his fashioned wings melting—

_Almost._

That's what he must take comfort in—the almost; that, _almost,_ Newton died, but he didn't; he's laying there next to Hermann; material and real and vibrantly alive, even asleep.

The rest can be sorted out in the morning—this confusing knot of emotion resting too heavy beneath his ribcage; giving a jolting shudder at the biologist's voice; his touch; his laugh.

For now, he is alive.

For now, that is enough.

* * *

_two_

The hum at the back of his mind is loud; too loud; not just his own thoughts, now, but the fleeting impression of Newton's as well; excitement, exhilaration; fear. And behind that—_satisfaction,_ vicious, like some sort of primal instinct; the goal to succeed, to reproduce, greater than the value for life; the male angler fish, absorbed into the larger female, there, at the bottom of the sea, to continue to species.

The kaiju—_these_ kaiju, half-formed, around him, in test-tubes and tanks and special chemical mixtures glowing sickly green-yellow around him—are Newton's; his offspring; his progeny, the hours poured into his project to bring them to life leaving dark circles under his eyes and questions Hermann cannot—_could_ not—get him to answer.

The memory distorts; sound flooding back over him.

Now—God, _now_—they are in his quarters. Newton, still pale and thin, _too_ thin, eyes bloodshot, lays, fully-clothed, in the bathtub. "I think I'm going to fall asleep," he murmurs, looking at Hermann through half-lidded eyes.

"Head back, please," Hermann instructs—gently—and squeezes out a dollop of shampoo. Newton complies, holding to the edges of the tub for support, and Hermann leans forward on the stool, the hand without shampoo carefully cupping water and wetting Newt's hair before he begins to scrub the shampoo into his scalp.

Newton's eyes flicker closed; he hums, softly, at the back of his throat; low, a purr, almost. "'S nice," he says, softly, after a moment.

Hermann adamantly does not think about the accommodations he was given while locked up, afterwards—_well-treated my_ arse, he thinks, bitterly; Newton may not have been physically harmed, but he's lost too much weight; clothes—the same ones he was wearing when Hermann found him—hanging loosely on his frame.

He dips his hand back into the water. "Is it too cold?" he asks.

"...no," Newt decides, after a moment; eyes opening; gaze flicking to Hermann's. "I..." he pauses, shoulders stiff beneath the water; tense. "Thank you," he says, finally.

Hermann, hand still in the water, pauses.

_You nearly killed me,_ he doesn't say; because that is hardly reassuring, and he does not wish for Newton to blame himself; already, he carries too much weight on his shoulders—he doesn't need to carry any more for something that never caused any material harm, in the end.

_I love you so much it scares me,_ he doesn't say; because that, too, isn't reassuring; and Hermann knows Newton would be crushed by that; wouldn't see the sentiment behind it, hearing only that Hermann _fears_ Newton _himself,_ which is not true.

"I'll get you a change of clothes," he says, instead and pulls his hand out of the water and retreats out of the bathroom; comes back with a loose shirt and sweatpants and a towel and waits for Newton to shower off and strip out of the wet articles of clothing before he hands him the towel; hums, absent-mindedly, a few bars of a song stuck in his head.

"My Chemical Romance?" Newt asks, with a raised brow.

Hermann shrugs. "Certain things carry over," he says, and doesn't flinch, though he nearly does. "Come to bed, Newton—it's late."

Newt looks at him, and then past him, and then back to him, again. "Okay," he says, and allows Hermann to pull the thick covers on the bed back for him; crawls beneath and waits, expectantly. Hermann follows a moment later.

They gravitate, eventually, towards the centre; that's how things work.

As Newton's breath evens out, his head tucked beneath Hermann's chin, Hermann tries not to let the images flash before his mind; of cloned kaiju, and Newton in a hospital gown; a cold bed and tear-tracks on cheeks.

Newton has always been larger than life, in some ways, he muses; always pushing forward; an unstoppable force.

And for that, he almost hurt himself; the modern Prometheus, doomed, not to eagles eating his liver, but rather constant distrust and a lifetime ban from his studies; his passion—almost.

Many things hinge on _almosts,_ it seems, but right now, Hermann's just glad that there _is_ an almost.

Things may not be good, now, but _almost_ is a place to start, at least.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [pacificrimdyke](https://pacificrimdyke.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
